


Moult

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dubious ornithology, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Aziraphale has never discussed moulting with Crowley, because it's embarrassing. It's time they had the conversation, though, because Aziraphale's moult is due.He just wishes Crowley had got his first.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 334





	Moult

**Author's Note:**

> Bit random, bit angsty, domestic h/c and general bonding. I don't think this needs a wing kink tag but let me know if you disagree.
> 
> Enjoy!

Aziraphale has been moulting on a more-or-less regular basis for over six-thousand years. It's irritating, and a little embarrassing, and he doesn't really see the point in it. Angels are not _birds,_ like seagulls or pigeons or… or blasted _budgies_. They shouldn't have to moult, but they do.

Aziraphale moults like clockwork, and has done since long before clocks were invented. Mid-January - the coldest part of winter, so thank Her angels don't really suffer the cold - every year that ends in 0. It's not so bad, he supposes, a minor inconvenience every ten years, but it _is_ embarrassing.

At least, it is now.

Now, he and Crowley are on the same side, their own side. They've never seen one another moult before, but it's not that Aziraphale has particularly avoided it. They've just never happened to be around one another at the relevant moment. He supposes it wouldn't have been a good idea, anyway, in case their respective sides had caught them being so vulnerable around one another. But now Crowley spends more time at the bookshop than not, and they've been more open about their feelings for each other. Perhaps it's _time_ for them to be vulnerable around one another.

Aziraphale just wishes Crowley's moult could have come first, so he didn't have to be the one to broach the subject.

"Crowley-" His mouth is a little dry. "I, er, I wondered."

"Hmm?" Crowley is prowling the shelves, dusting under the pretext of rearranging titles. He claims it's to be annoying, but by the time he finishes nothing has ever actually moved; Aziraphale lets him have his pride. Which makes it especially galling that he has to surrender his own now.

"I mean, I wanted to warn you." That gets his attention, all right; within seconds, Crowley is at his side, all concern.

"What's happened? Is it-?"

"It's not Heaven. Nor Hell- it's not a threat, my dear. I'm sorry-"

"Warn me of _what_ , angel?" The demand is gentle, but no less a demand for that. Aziraphale is glad of it; it takes the choice out of his hands. He can't _not_ tell Crowley now.

"My moult's due. Very soon."

He's not sure what he expects; perhaps for Crowley to pull a face and make his excuses for a month or so. More likely, to offer to help him loosen the feathers that need to go, to hold Aziraphale through the itching and rub oil into his wings when it's all over. What he doesn't expect is for Crowley to stare blankly at him.

"Your… moult? As in… losing your feathers?"

"And growing new ones, yes. Probably next week, or the week after."

"You moult. Like a budgie."

"Of course I do, we're not that different-" Something in Crowley's expression makes him reassess that in a hurry. "-are we?"

"Er. Well. Demons, we… don't. Moult, that is."

"You don't?" Aziraphale has never truly considered that there might be any benefit to Falling, besides it bringing him closer to Crowley, but he supposes She really is merciful. "Oh. Well, that must be nice."

"Yeah. Oh, yeah, it is. Very nice. I didn't realise… er, do you want to be alone, then, or- is there something I can do?"

Knowing, now, that Crowley doesn't have to suffer the same indignity, the idea of having him witness it seems more mortifying than ever. But he doesn't want Crowley to leave, even temporarily, and he _does_ like the idea of having someone with him during the irritable, uncomfortable days of his moult.

"Would you mind staying with me? Helping me take care of them, perhaps? Your wings have always been so beautifully pristine - and now I learn those are the feathers you Fell with, I have no idea how you've kept them so wonderfully all this time - I'd feel I was in excellent hands, my dear."

"They're not-" Crowley cut himself off with a sigh. "Of course I'll stay. How can I help?"

A week and a half later, Aziraphale is lying on his bed, face pressed into the pillows, wings spread wide as Crowley picks out broken quills and gently rustles free loose feathers that haven't yet fallen. He's been performing this task diligently for the last three days, any time Aziraphale shows the slightest hint of discomfort, and it feels better than anything Heaven could ever dream up. Once the feathers are sorted, Crowley begins working strong, certain fingers into the muscles beneath them, and Aziraphale feels himself all but melt into the mattress, a desperate sort of moan escaping him as Crowley's hands still.

"Sorry. Is this-"

"Please don't stop."

Eventually, he has to stop; Aziraphale is making soft, contented mewling sounds with Crowley's every movement - he knows, and he's embarrassed, but he can't seem to stop himself - and Crowley's breathing is alternating between being shallow and frantic and not happening at all.

"Gonna stop, angel," he gasps, and Aziraphale turns over to kiss him. Crowley allows himself to be rolled onto the mattress and the evening slips away from them.

Two days after _that_ , his moult is finished. Aziraphale swears it's never been so fast before, that Crowley has worked miracles with those clever hands of his. Crowley scoffs and tells him to hold still while he oils Aziraphale's feathers _properly._

"These ones here, you'll never reach them yourself," he points out, "I'm happy to do it whenever you like."

"Mm. That sounds lovely, my dear. Allow me to return the favour some time."

Crowley makes a vague hum that might be agreement, and the ordeal is over. It's not so bad, with Crowley at his side. It's not as awful as he thought it would be, being vulnerable with Crowley.

He's still jealous that Crowley doesn't moult.

He's jealous for three more weeks, until Crowley pops his wings out to scratch a sudden itch and a feather comes away in his hand. Aziraphale - who has _absolutely not_ been watching him absent-mindedly over the top of his book for the last five minutes - sees him stare at it in frozen horror for several seconds before stuffing it into a pocket and leaping to his feet as he shuffles his wings back into the ether.

"Going to check on my plants, angel. Might be a while, couple of days maybe, sort some papers-" And then he's gone, without even waiting for a response, the sound of the Bentley screeching away from the kerb making Aziraphale wince.

Aziraphale, being an angel and so predisposed to goodness and respect for the privacy of others, knows that he hasn't been invited to go with Crowley and that there is probably a very good reason for that. So he stays where he is.

He stays where he is for all of thirty seconds, because Aziraphale is also a bit of a bastard, and a nosy one at that, and besides, Crowley has seen him at his most vulnerable and _helped_ him. Aziraphale would like to offer him the same comfort, if necessary. This might even be the start of Crowley's first moult since Falling - or _ever_ \- and if that's the case, he'll need even more support.

The walk to Crowley's flat is short, but it's quicker by car; Aziraphale isn't surprised to see the Bentley already parked outside the building when he arrives. He goes up and taps on the door, but there's no response. Pressing his ear to the wood, he can hear movement; hissed curses, and the snap of fingers, and the scraping of furniture across a hard, smooth floor.

"Crowley?" He knocks again as he calls, and the movement inside the flat stops.

"Ssshit." The door is wrenched open. "Not right now, angel, I told you, two days-"

"Crowley, I'm worried-"

"Sorry. I'm- look, you need to go."

Aziraphale hesitates on the threshold, torn between trusting his instincts and respecting Crowley's boundaries - but then Crowley makes a strangled sound, takes three swift, stumbling steps backwards, and bursts into flames.

Aziraphale cries out in alarm, hurrying forward, but Crowley only drops to one knee and holds up a hand, warning him not to approach.

"Stay back!" He's clearly in pain; his face is contorted in agony as the fire consumes his beautiful black wings, licking at his face and hair. "Just- you should go, angel-" The yellow flames start to burn brighter, and Aziraphale realises in horror that they must also be getting hotter. His Crowley is _burning_ , and he seems eerily resigned to it. As if he's accepted it. As if he's _expected_ it.

"Will you survive?" He asks, forcing himself to sound calm.

"Yeah," Crowley tells him, "always have before."

"How long?"

"Always," the demon admits, and it takes a moment for Aziraphale to realise that he thinks the question meant _how long has this been going on for?_ It's a good question, that, one he'll want a proper answer to later, but right now, with Crowley gritting his teeth as flames lick over him, it's not the one he means to ask.

"How long will this last?"

"Two hours, three," Crowley whimpers. "Five at most."

"Then if you don't mind," Aziraphale tells him, already taking a seat on the ornate chair now pushed back against the wall, "I'll stay."

Crowley is in no condition to protest; it breaks Aziraphale's heart to watch him writhing and sobbing and _screaming_ on the floor of his bare flat, ash scattering across the surface beneath his scrabbling fingers and blazing wings. But he does; he sits, rigid and unmoving as the soldier he was intended to be, for over four hours before the fire begins to die down, giving way to the thick smoke that shrouds Crowley's broken form in mystery.

The moment the last flame is out, he rushes forward, afraid to touch his demon in case he hurts him but unable to stay away a moment longer. 

"Crowley- Crowley, are you all right? What was that?"

"Hellfire," comes the rasping reply from somewhere inside the cloud of smoke. A finger emerges to point at Aziraphale. "Budgie."

"Is this any time to be calling me names?"

"Budgie," Crowley repeats, sounding half a breath from choking on the word, and then the finger swivels to point back into the thickest part of the smoke, where Crowley himself must lie. "Phoenix."

For a moment, that makes no sense at all, and then it does. _Demons don’t moult,_ Crowley had said, and Aziraphale had thought them _fortunate._ This doesn’t seem the slightest bit fortunate - but there’s no time for self-recrimination now. He wades into the smoke, carefully searching until he can sense Crowley slumped just inches from his foot.

“Can I touch you, dear? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“‘S fine, just… not the wings.” Before Aziraphale can start trying to work out how to achieve that, with visibility in this part of the flat almost at zero, Crowley’s hand catches his, and from there all he has to do is haul the demon up and walk with him.

They pass through a door that turns out to lead to the bathroom, and Aziraphale shuts the door against the smoke before turning to Crowley. The demon is clinging to Aziraphale with one hand and reaching for a hanging cord with the other; Aziraphale pulls it and the extractor fan roars into life, drawing away the last of the smoke so he can really see the extent of the damage. Crowley’s clothes are scorched, his skin is covered in ash, and his wings-

“Oh, Crowley. What can I do?” Crowley’s wings are out, folded tightly against his back as if to protect them, but it’s too late; the damage is done. Bare of feathers, there’s nothing to disguise the horror of blistered skin beneath, reddened and radiating heat. Aziraphale can almost feel it from across the room.

“Hot- I. Issssssssce.” Crowley is clearly struggling to speak, but he gestures helplessly towards the bathtub and Aziraphale nods in understanding. A quick miracle fills the tub with icy water - decidedly _not_ Holy Water, but rather relocated from the building’s water tank and supernaturally chilled - and he helps Crowley over to it so the demon can flop into the water with a splash and - Aziraphale winces - a sizzle. It would no doubt be a spectacularly bad idea for a human with similar injuries, but the demon seems relieved, and that’s all that matters.

Well, almost all that matters. Crowley doesn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hand, and that’s important, too. He may not have wanted Aziraphale to see this, but he certainly doesn’t seem to want him to leave now.

“Oh, Crowley. This has happened before?” The demon nods, shifting uncomfortably in the steaming water, and Aziraphale snaps his fingers to cool it again. “Often?” Another nod. “I moult every ten years. Is it like that for you?”

“No.” Crowley croaks. “Not… regular. Always- always a surprise.”

“Oh. Oh-” He can’t say _oh, Crowley_ again, however much he’d like to - he’s already said it what feels like a hundred times today. “How lovely for you.” Crowley looks up, startled by the sarcasm, and Aziraphale forces a wry smile onto his face. “I’m sorry, my dear. I had no idea. All this time-”

“Didn’t want you to know.”

For a while, there’s silence, except for the occasional gentle splash as Crowley shifts position. Aziraphale keeps a tight grip on his hand, and Crowley clings to it.

“Didn’t want you to see,” he admits, after some time, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yes, well. I don’t think you were in any condition to miracle yourself an ice bath.”

“I usually do it before,” Crowley tells him, “wish up a freezer full of ice, use the taps like a human. I’ve been at home, the last few times.”

“You didn’t have time, because you were at the shop,” Aziraphale deduces, “I _am_ sorry.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Crowley tells him, “not after- I would never risk your shop, anyway.”

“Well, this certainly explains some of your interior design choices.” Crowley nods and sinks a little further under the water with a sigh, so Aziraphale presses on. “How much warning do you usually get?”

“Not long. A few minutes.” Crowley shrugs. “It’s not every ten years, like you. Sometimes it’s five. Or fifty. Or seven months, once. Went my whole century-long nap without it, and then three times in a week. That… that was rough.”

“My dear, it sounds unimaginably terrible. And you never have to do it alone again. They, ah- well, obviously your feathers grow back?”

“Yeah.” Crowley shrugs. “Takes a day or two, but they come in quite quickly once I can get the burns healed up.”

“Oh! Well, if you’d like, I could-” He wiggles his fingers to indicate miraculous intervention, and Crowley turns wide eyes upon him, lit up with hope.

“Would you-?”

“Of course, my dear. If you’re sure you don’t mind holy powers on your wings, that is; I know how sensitive they can be.”

“At the moment, angel, you could offer to take them off with a hacksaw and I’d seriously consider it.”

“Mm, yes, well, that’s not entirely reassuring.”

“It’ll be fine, angel. Promise. Please, just do it.”

Aziraphale considers him warily for a second, then nods. “Fine. But you’ll have to get out of the bath, I’m not risking this water getting blessed.”

Crowley hauls himself out and towels off before sloping into the bedroom to change into dry trousers. When he returns, he’s not wearing a shirt, but Aziraphale has no time to be distracted by that. He holds out a hand, wincing at the way the air around Crowley’s wings still feels _warm_.

“Here we go. Let me know if it’s uncomfortable.” He lets his healing power out gradually, seeking out the pain and damage and washing it away in gentle waves. Crowley groans, then relaxes, and Aziraphale wraps his arms around him from behind when he’s finished.

“How’s that, dearest?”

“Mm, ‘s good,” Crowley tells him, blushing at the affectionate nickname - and then all his muscles tense again, wings stiffening against Aziraphale’s chest.

“What’s-?” The question is answered for him as Crowley’s feathers burst forth all at once, sharp points surprising the angel before they soften to their usual condition. “Oh. Well, that _is_ fast.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that… that should be it, now.”

They end up in bed together, because Crowley is utterly drained and Aziraphale has no intention of leaving him. Once the last of the ash is miracled away from the floor, and the windows are open to air the flat, he joins the demon and settles against the pillows.

“How are you feeling now, my dear?”

“Best I’ve ever felt on a burning day,” Crowley admits, “I may have to ask you to help me in the future.”

“Happy to,” Aziraphale assures him. “Would you like a wing massage, now your new feathers are in?”

“Mm.” The demon rolls onto his front and looks at him with an expression of pure _love._ “Sounds wonderful, but I might fall asleep on you if you try that.”

“Quite all right. I don’t mind you falling asleep, if you don’t.”

Aziraphale sets to work, straightening a few ruffled feathers before getting on with the massage. Crowley, as promised, lets out a few sinful little moans before sinking, unconscious, into the pillows. Aziraphale turns his attention to stroking his hair, instead, watching over his demon as he sleeps. It’s only now that he finds himself free to process his own feelings about walking in on Crowley’s wings _burning_. They’re not good feelings. He didn’t like it, not at all; surely it was bad enough that Crowley’s wings had burned up in the Fall, without the constant threat of spontaneous demonic combustion hanging over his head. And Crowley had been in pain - he’d said it was Hellfire, but Hellfire wasn’t supposed to _hurt_ demons - and it could happen again, any time. That's a lot to get his head around. But he’d been there, and he’d stayed, and he’d managed to help Crowley, at least a little. That's something. That's good.

“Angel,” the demon mumbles, face still pressed into the pillow, “can hear your brain working. Thinking too hard, go to sleep.”

“Sorry, dear.” He shifts so he can cuddle up to Crowley, pressing a fond kiss into his hair. “Just processing everything. You won’t hide away from me next time this happens, will you?”

“No.” Crowley opens his eyes, and Aziraphale can see the sincerity in them. “No, no more hiding. You won’t hide next time you moult?”

“No. From now on, we face things together. Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear.”

“Good. Now stop worrying and go to sleep.”

Crowley drags him closer, snuggles in, and falls asleep again, and Aziraphale can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be.


End file.
